


Afterlife

by My_Soul_and_Perfume



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Graphic depictions of violence takes place during flashbacks, Hannibal Rising References, Hannibal Season 4, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mainly a short story, Mentioned Mischa Lecter, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prompt Fill, Slow Romance, The fandom isn't complete without some angst lol, Vulnerable Hannibal Lecter, Vulnerable Will Graham, has some poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 02:43:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14154915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Soul_and_Perfume/pseuds/My_Soul_and_Perfume
Summary: I will never deeply regret taking our lives—it was my mission for years after all—but maybe forever, I will regret taking our past lives for granted. What we had was satisfying and I didn’t see it until it was too late.Crisp red leaves make war with thick ice sheets, cracking arbitrarily towards the entrance to the dock, allowing sunlight to shine on them. I trace the footprints that are there, remembering that I am about to approach a hurting man.~*~When Hannibal offers his mind for Will to dissect, Will is unsure if it is a means to revealing the truth—that no matter how hard they try, they will always be oil and water—or if falling with each other into the depths of the sea has somehow wiped the slate clean. Nonetheless, Will must overcome his twisted and unforgiving perceptions of Hannibal Lecter to find the little boy hiding behind all those facades. Can Will move on and forgive himself? Can Hannibal learn to love without masks?Through a story told through metaphors and dialogue, Hannibal and Will reveal themselves through the language of grief, friendship, and trust.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hannibalsimago](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannibalsimago/gifts).



> “It’s as if time stands still”  
> -Adrian Owen, Into the Gray Zone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Hannibalsimago, who gave me a prompt on tumblr: "What I would like in season 4 is to have Will see the real Hannibal--the lost little boy inside--and how he wants to incorporate that--not daddy kink at all, nor age play--but seeing someone all the way down to their soul."
> 
> Also for my poetry book, "The Psychological Makeup of Him, Them, and Everyone Between."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mainly in short story format with some poetry sneaked in there <3

 

He unsheathed his sword, bared it to me,  
and I fell into my reflection.  
Maybe he needed to know that I could kiss an unflinching shadow,  
Forgive and reminisce, forget and treasure our shared pasts;  
know that I could accept my true nature,  
mind, body, and soul; know that I could accept  
his mind, body, and soul. 

As we danced, he grieved, crying, “My maestro, he mourns for death,  
he will leave me for The Enemy!”  
Little did he know, I chose Him  
His monster: so metaphysical and inhuman;  
so corrupt I would suffer silently, suffer deeply in his demise  
to preserve its beauty  
He knew this, but he ignored it.

And then I knew. 

“Hannibal,”

It was not me who had succumbed to The Enemy.

“I see.”

Those silvery tears, unshed in agony, were not seeing Heaven

“I _see_.”

They were seeing Hell.


	2. One

       Misty bodies move under the daylight gaze.

       I abandon my state of affairs cataloguing the yard—still new to me, among other things: Hannibal’s new side of introversions and solitude, his lack of appetite at dinner, the piano collecting dust—and move blindly through the fog, searching for a purpose.

       An open, grey-looking landscape, not barren, but thriving with bramble bushes and trees make a journey downhill, and that is where I’ll go: down by the river, where Hannibal is pondering: oh, about his sister again, as if nostalgia can smother his demons.

 _Clomp, clomp, clomp_ , my boots go. Grass sticks out in odd puddles of mud, becoming, unfortunately, stains on the fabric. I _squick_ and _squelch_ all the way down, growing tiresome of the sun, which cannot decide on full radiance or partial illumination. As it was midday and the clouds are strewn far wide, the sun cannot dry the sodden fabric; it ghosts, however. Once or twice earlier, I had my own spotlight.

       The wind begins to howl; my coat bustles, restless like autumn. I look: at those bramble bushes and trees leaning downhill, the lake on the horizon expanding forever onwards. Listen: to the birds in the trees and their soft yawping; to the boat and dock colliding, _thunk, thunk, thunking_. Always, always, the world I perceive looks infinitely more beautiful from above. After everything Hannibal and I have done to make a kingdom…well, I wouldn’t trade it for any other afterlife. I feel beautiful in the graces of shadows, in the limber arms of the trees, like I am the rare September Augustus tulip. I feel beautiful when the moon is full and when the wolves howl in harmony with the crickets and snakes: when they take me to dream. I feel beautiful here, always.

       I will never _deeply_ regret taking our lives—it was my mission for years after all—but maybe forever, I will regret taking our past lives for granted. What we had was satisfying and I didn’t see it until it was too late.

       Crisp red leaves make war with thick ice sheets, cracking arbitrarily towards the entrance to the dock, allowing sunlight to shine on them. I trace the footprints that are there, remembering that I am about to approach a hurting man.

       Despite the prejudices the light has on Hannibal’s features, he seems transformed—monstrous—lacking the natural softness ‘round his eyes and holding his posture in a rather ill fashion.

       “It is a lovely morning,” he greets dryly.

       “It’ll rain soon. Sorry to put a damper on your plans, but you won’t be swimming in the lake today.”

       These lonely landscapes have influenced the way I feel about our little rendezvous; time stands still here; our hearts beat soundly here; we coexist peacefully here. Hannibal can be himself here.

       “When I was a child, I would visit the lake often. One of God’s greatest gifts he had given me—that he could have ever given me—was solitude from the world’s cacophony, but only that if I gave him a sacrifice,” he murmurs, seeming distressed by the quiet of the lake. “Dare I say, it was a I gift I could not afford.”

       My eyes shutter closed at the next icy gust of wind. Behind them, bones and ash do a dance. Flesh and sacrifice take a seat at the table. A monster’s weakness lurks: _I crown her with a flower garland. Her hair is delicate, gold. There are two, three bracelets wrapped around her delicate wrist and the moonlight compliments their silver color. She wears a pretty dress spun of silk._

       “She will never be forgotten in my memory, but in light of recent events, I suppose I have needed…a Christening.”

       Curiosity endows its sharp tongue upon me. “Why _aren’t_ you fascinated by her death? Unlike so many others’. The ceaseless killing of souls….” What about Mischa’s death makes him vulnerable to it, unlike the others?

       Hannibal is no longer a slouched silhouette, but a labored, undone man. A lock of blonde hair, a pearl necklace, and an old book enchanted with age like yellowed paper form a half-circle around him. I stare and stare and stare, until Hannibal begins to speak.

 _"I will tell you of the angel whom I loved,_  
_of her glassy brown eyes like filth on her snowy skin_  
_that were a technicolor dream in my adolescent mind:_  
_Tell you of the castle from where we leisured,_  
_of its grey bricks like the color of dolor_  
_that consumed innocence, and left saints pining:_  
_Tell you of her slight frame and inborn wit,_  
_of dusky Summer blossoms like the color of her smile_  
_that were a symbol of her radiance and beginning of my devotion._

 _We were dashing through rivers and outrunning woodpeckers,_  
_and thundering through the woods, feeling weightless_  
_To such destination where Lecter Castle met a mirror,_  
_just high enough for our fingers to trace its reflection._  
_A bag of sweets in one pocket, two sharp sticks in the other_  
_I ensured our claim of this spot, and as a vow to Mischa,_  
_excitedly kissed her forehead with all my might._  
_“Oh, deity of nature who watches o’er the land_  
_The far mountains and low shrubs_  
_The common horse and the wild daisy_  
_The cool lake and the creatures underground_  
_I claim the land, here, for my beloved sister_  
_and pray that winters ‘naught be dry,_  
_nor the spring dull and dead and silent_  
_And I pray for bountiful seasons_  
_of satisfaction on which we stand,_  
_on the acres of beauty we feast on each day_  
_And an everlasting peace”_

 _I kissed her forehead again_  
_And my lips went insane from it, her taste so sweet._  
_The world could throw chaos in our faces_  
_Yet the woods would be stronger still:_  
_the ultimate protection against toxins and poisons_  
_left over from man's cruel hand_  
_Living for beauty, an indulgence to share._  
_And lest my cheeks went rosy, or my shoulders slumped_  
_or my legs started to shake, or my eyes threatened to water,_  
_puffy eyed and stuttering like some pansy_ _:_  
_I'd prove to be a boy—_  
_not a man, like father, who could protect her.  
_ _My beloved Mischa...._

 _The drowsy sunrise became inflamed sunset by five_  
_Waves lapped the crooked dock and sand, teasing us toward the trail_  
_There was an insidious silence: not a bird, not a wolf, not a fox_  
_No smoke burning in the air that evening_  
_The lone star in the sky misplaced in a clutter of others_  
_Weary, drooping daisies soaking in mud_  
_Our senseless footprints running amok the terrain._  
_My Mischa, I said, and my doe eyes were unshed with tears  
_ _Let’s go home.”_

    “She had my heart in her possession, the ferocious girl she was. Unfortunately, that memory is a romantic perception of her cruel death.”

       There are no more words to speak: for I know now why Hannibal brought us to a deciduous land enchanted by lakes and rivers. I have always feared letting myself surrender to my memories, but for Hannibal, it is the only way the teacup can ever restore itself; I know now that teacups, time, and the rules of disorder are not a gospel, but a logic. Control being yanked from Hannibal’s hands by two of his dearest was worse than the smile he had left on my flesh; Hannibal’s suffering is deeply ingrained in his very bones.

       It is only now that he is beginning to fall apart.

       “What would you have changed about that night on the cliff?”            

       “Everything was as it was, and everything had a place. You were in my arms, shaken and trusting no more than you were in Florence. Only, that day, you kept your forgiveness, Will. What would I change about that?”

           “I just thought the pieces could have been rearranged a little better, so that the both of us could have felt satisfied about our end. I guess _I’m_ not satisfied.” Just as I finish, a gust of wind shakes a pile of leaves. We both stare, watching the vibrant reds dance around each other before settling down once more. I glance at Hannibal and bring a hand to my mouth, trying to mask its quivering.

           His eyes….

“ _What seemed like a century delving toward the abyss_  
_felt like gravity accelerating our fall_  
_Nothing but light and air and color_  
_Nothing but your arms holding me one last time_  
_before we lost our bodies to the Atlantic._  
_Time:_  
_forever immortal, though a spec of a shard in our hearts,_  
_crashed down on us like the waves,_  
_who, like us, had not lost its passionate colors_  
_Had not become bone dry ashes,_  
_or ashes scattering away to the four winds_  
_Disorder:_  
_A cracked leather spine hanging onto youth by a thread_  
_Stretching, stretching, stretching into a content smile._  
_The moon and sun, pulled towards each other's radiance_  
_—Blood. Lust—_  
_An eternal eclipse inflicting justice on mankind for eternity!_  
_Oh, you were so beautiful, Will:_  
_Not the blood of my palm. But the color of romance on the horizon_  
_Not clenching hand. But supple tongue and lips conjoining us_  
_Not the moment you ate my heart, but when you savored it._  
_It was beautiful—until it wasn’t._  
_It wasn’t the moment we hit the ocean. But the ghost of your fingers fading away_  
_It wasn’t my tight throat choking on a final, dying breath_  
_It was_  
_The moment I realized that I fell alone_  
_It was_  
_You staring at my death with cold indifference  
__as you watched me shatter into pieces.”_

           I feel sick. I feel weak. He has forced me to relive that timeless night and I let him—for what? Because I feel guilty? Because I want to prove my loyalty? I can tell myself that I was content with my actions that night all I want, but it would be a lie. There was no satisfaction in the ocean as I had hoped. Merely his cold, dead eyes staring at me as he floated away from my arms, and the sense that I had broken the unfixable.

_Blood broth: delightful to see again its rich color,_  
_as is the copper pan’s brilliant shine_  
_The burner’s lavender-blue flame._  
_Seeds are missing from the pomegranate,_  
_spilled on cold mahogany_  
_The knife butchers, like so_  
_My heart, in this moment, has a mind of its own._  
_But what am I feeling? What should I be feeling?_  
_Pity for myself, or depression because I pity myself?_  
_Or is it the life in my belly I am missing?_  
_Terse hands bruise delicate herbs_  
_Sweet cherry wine becomes warm in the bottle_  
_The feast is life_  
_I put the life in my belly and I live  
_ _Or, is the life divided among us, and we consume each other’s?_

       The curtains in the dining room dance flirtatiously with the wind. Hours later, and the unsettled feeling in my gut has not dissipated, but evil urges to exact my frustrations on myself have stewed to a boil. It is eight o’clock sharp as I take my seat at the dining table: ribcage open, eyes dazed, back stiff. Hannibal enters, carrying two large silver platers.

           “What’s on the menu tonight?” I say, attempting normalcy. Hannibal avoids the flashing warning signs I have placed before him, feinting left when they said right: a smile on his lips suggests he has started a game and wants me to play along.

           “I decided to revisit the cuisine I tasted in Florence. A traditional Antipasto—with some cured meats, vegetables, and provolone, all drizzled with a light vinaigrette—as well as Calamari in zimino, stewed in fresh vegetables and served with a pinch of salt. I’m afraid I could not enjoy all my meals in Florence, and I left more plates unfinished than consumed. I hope you will bear with me.”

           “Getting cravings, are we?”

           “Let not our cravings be dissatisfied, dear boy. If they are, they will pester you until they are fed.”

           “I suppose these cravings are reciprocated in a way. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat until I’d exacted my revenge on you when I set out to find you. As I traveled, it felt like you were following me. Like wherever I went, you were there.”

       “Oh, I know exactly where you’ve been, Will.”  

       “How’s that?”

       Hannibal’s knife hand falters. “I can smell it. Been near any graves, lately?”

       “The Lecter’s,” I say wryly, “Didn’t step on anyone’s toes, rest assured. I think I have…one too many dead souls that have grievances with me.”

       “People try their hardest not to meddle with delicate things, but often they leave ripples where they step. It could take years for those ripples to settle.”

       “They stick their noses where they don’t belong, you mean. They uncover truths and secrets that were meant to stay buried—deep, deep within the fortresses of your mind.”

       “My mind is open to your liking, should you care to learn it, Will.”

       “But there’s no turning back when the secrets unfold. I can’t put back together again what you…purposefully disfigured.”

       “One must take risks _temps de temps_. Did I ever misstep in sending you letters from jail, or was it merely fate and circumstance that led us to our climax? Did you expect to die in my arms, or was it a gamble of well-timed luck? The pieces were all in order. The order was not.”

       “I don’t think any of this was _meant_ to happen, but it did happen. I don’t think you were _supposed_ to have this life, but you are. There’s a big difference between expectation and reality, Hannibal.”

       “Hm,” he simply answers. “I do not regret the monster I’ve become, but…perhaps I expected a nicer reflection in the mirror.”

       Suddenly, I experience a shortness of breath. I see Abigail’s blood spilling in my hands. The food on my plate is messy, disordered; the hair of the corn looks like real human hair; the silver knife scraping the place’s surface sounds like screams. I feel as if I am in a cold place and a warm one at the same time.

       I close my eyes and sigh softly. “Is this…something you’re giving me, Hannibal? Is this something that you’re comfortable with me having?”

       “Yes. Supposing you could see my true self, down to my very bones and soul—what would that mean for us?”

       “Really, the question is, how could I learn to live with you, knowing every horrible thing you’ve done.” I open my eyes. “Or how I could accept that. I suspect that would be a difficult feat in of itself, though. You don’t exactly wear your flaws on your sleeve like I do.”

       “Are we back to blaming, Will?”

       “No. No, it’s just. You’re not actually angry with me and it’s hard for me to see…hard for me to understand—not understand, but—I feel like I’m grasping at light. Like every time I get close to it, it suddenly disappears, or changes a different color before I can process it. It’s frustrating.”

       “I apologize. It is simply the way I was raised.”

       “Don’t apologize, I understand now.” I look into his eyes as I say this, taking in his tense jaw and worried eyes. “I feel like my perception of you is also just beginning to change.”

 _You don’t know how beautiful you are to me_.

       “I take it my gift is accepted then, and not to be returned?”

       I stare at the essence of dark wine on his lips in response. As I lean in and pressed my lips to his, gentle and sweet, I feel a large stone drop in my stomach, and the weight of my words catch up to me. The monster is exposing himself to the light at last, but with an unnatural acceptance to do so. That monster, bloody and cruel as I once perceived it to be, is not a monster at all: but a boy in sheep’s clothing.

~*~

       A light wind could knock me over, I’m trembling so hard.

       I hold his hand as we descend the hill, wiping my sweat away every time it drips on my coat, all while Hannibal sends concerned glances my way. For a moment, I couldn’t see the path below—more like a river of blood and tears. I wonder not the first time, _Is this the extent of our trust? Nervous hands and clicking throats._

       The landscape seems to force us into synchronization, a choreography where he and I take each step together; breathe together; hearts beat together. Soon, the chorus of crunching snow and wispy leaves on thin branches harmonize. I feel at ease. I remember what it felt like walking this road alone, searching for a man to ease my worries about his depression; searching for a connection in mixed winds, unable to grasp his ever-changing direction. The man is still hurting, but he isn’t alone this time. He has me and I have his mind.

      The same red leaves from that morning are still chasing each other on the dock. I catch one in my hand and hold it to the starlight. Hannibal brushes his shoulders against mind, leaning so far, I fear he might timber. The leaf wanders away again.

           He looks at me deliriously, his eyes amber in the lamplight. In them, I see those vibrant red leaves go round and round…bloody, messy, spilled. Dressed down to simple linen pajamas and a coat, he looks like nothing more than a child. The simultaneous images make a paradoxical reality: how one avoids innocence like the plague yet is allowed into the accepting arms of God in death. The message, confusing as it is, makes an interesting picture; age lines usually tells a man’s journey, but as Hannibal has many that are quite crinkled round his eyes—quite burdened—it makes me wonder whether his years were as easy as I thought them to be.

           _The eyes are the windows to the soul. What does Hannibal see in mine?_

           “You and Mischa cherished each other very much?”

           “We did,” Hannibal nods, looking star struck, “I took her to the fireflies only once, in early Summer. They were the closest stars I could bring to her in those dark times. The bag of sweets in my pocket that day, we ate them as we made our wishes.”

           The thought of Hannibal wishing on a bug amuses me. “Care to share?”

           “What I wished for was to see the fireflies with Mischa every day. The war on my country was a strong influence on that wish.” We breathe in silence for a moment. “I…regret not being able to save her, Will. Tell me, if you could remedy a regret with a wish, would you do it?”       

I answer as honestly as I can, looking into his eyes. “When I visited your home, I found a fountain, dried up and dilapidated. Even though it was empty, I yearned to make a wish for everything to go away, for everything to be better, but I also wanted the struggle of making amends. I was so tired, I was ready to give up, but at the same time, I believed that without regrets, we couldn’t move on from our mistakes. I still believe that.”

           “For years, I have regretted not being able to save her, for putting her in jeopardy, for blocking her from my memory. Was her grave in good condition when you saw it?”

           “They were all well-kept.”

           “You don’t know how much that means to me, Will. I have but a lock of her hair, the pearl necklace she wore on her birthday, and the diary my mother wrote for her as she was growing.”

           _You don’t know how beautiful you are to me, Hannibal_.

           “I have some idea. Remember, I have your mind. You take on my burdens, I take on yours. Every mistake you and I make is more ink in the bottle to correct it.” I take off one glove with my teeth so the other will stay entwined with Hannibal’s, pocketing it after. I raise that hand to his cheek (smooth, blushing, wet with tears) and caress him tenderly. “When you were young, you tried atoning for your sins by killing the men who hurt Mischa. You were bitter and angry. Before then, you were haunted and afraid. And no matter how much you killed, you couldn’t fill the hole that her death left behind. Consuming others was a temporary relief, so you kept doing it, so the hole would stay filled, music and drawing your poison of choice to keep the sadness away. When Mischa was alive, you would sing and dance with her, wouldn’t you? You would draw with her. She was everything to you and more because your mother and father made sure there was nothing that would come between you two. Hannibal, I know what it feels like to lose someone important, to submerge the pain in alcohol until I feel like nothing. I see the scars that have not healed, I sense the longing when you reach out to that lake, and I know the desperation that comes with avenging someone. Now, you’ve given me the gift of your mind and I’m going to take care of it like it’s my own. There’s no hiding from me anymore because I _see you_. This is the Afterlife. Give me your mind, body, and soul.”

           Finally, the dam has broken, and I can see the damage. Walls are smeared with blood, paintings hang crooked on the walls, the ceiling comes down with ominous force.

           Hannibal, seven years old, waves and disappears.

           And I: I am quaking with the force of Hannibal’s sobs. He sniffles on my neck, where his tears dampen my skin. He isn’t making a sound, but I can hear him just fine.  

           Will these words heal him?

" _I will tell you of the man whom I love,_  
of his charming wit like the natural gleam of stars  
that has become my tether between reality and fantasy  
Tell you of the iridescence and timelessness we share,  
of his temperament like the ferocity of a piano  
that strikes chords in my soul, branding me as his  
_Tell you of the palace from where we leisure_  
_of its twisting body like the roiling Atlantic  
__that has no edge, nor hole in its infinite domination_.

 _Lovely sorrow, you are the ink that spells my name_  
_Pause and breath in one fluid motion, you define me_  
_You etch little cracks that others can never erase  
_ _Oh, under your strings I am your marionette._

 _Unlocking the gate to your inner machinations_  
_the schemes I expected were nowhere to be found_  
_Though I knew it wasn’t it vain_  
_A fountain and fireflies standing still in time._  
_Dazzling stars standing still in time, I found._  
_Opened my heart to them, I did, and what did it do?_  
_Showed me all the times monsters beat you, hit you_  
_Who knew?_  
_Then I saw the man with the hour,_  
_heard his words defined by seconds, knowing of my dreams_  
_He sounded like you, lovely sorrow, but not quite dead._  
_T’was the same man I’d run from that I was seeking_  
_The one I held remorse with—yes, remorse because I caused him pain  
_ _My words poison; my wrath just beginning_

_A fountain of fireflies, I found, and so I wished_  
_thinking I would part with my deadly desires_  
_That wish grew cold as stone._  
_What I was given instead was a companion_  
_rich like silver and gold._  
_Oh, what is he when he is young, and his eyes are light?_  
_What is he when his tongue enjoys telling tales; the crescent moon high_  
_What is he when his mind makes him believe he is in a dream?_  
_When he calls for Mischa and not me_  
_When his hands hold softly mine  
_ _When his weakness is that he never learned how to cry_

 _Now I know the lullaby that lulls him to sleep_  
_I will acknowledge every piece of him_  
_I will love every piece of him_  
_I will savor every piece of him_  
_He saved me and he showed me what it means to live_  
_To love_  
_To laugh_  
_Now, lovely sorrow, I believe it is time for you to reciprocate_  
_For we will advance to the next step_  
_Give in_  
_Give me your mind, body, and soul_  
_Because you will never be in pain again  
_ _Forevermore.”_

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live for your comments and feedback. Thank you so much for reading! <3
> 
> [Find me on tumblr!](my-soul-and-perfume.tumblr.com)


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